


The Ghosts of Vancouver

by memories_child



Category: The X-Files RPF
Genre: Memories, Vancouver, photograph, young and foolish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-23
Updated: 2012-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-30 01:08:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memories_child/pseuds/memories_child
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The nights are long in Los Angeles, and he has plenty of time to remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghosts of Vancouver

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This is RPF. If you don't like it, please don't read it. These are fictional characters and any resemblance to living people, while intentional, is made purely on the premise that anyone reading this knows I am making it up.
> 
>  **Author's Notes:** A justification (of sorts): I'm still not sure about writing RPF about these people (regardless of the fact that what I've written is fictional, didn't happen and never will happen). I know a few of you have heard my thoughts on this, so I'm not going to go into them again. But I'm feeling really low and crap today, and the last line of this fic popped into my head, and I decided I needed to write a character who's also feeling pretty low and crappy. That was my only intention, and this is the result.
> 
> Be kind?

The nights are long in Los Angeles, the air warm and lucid, and he walks the streets with only shadows and secrets for company.

The people are different, here. He is different, here, though he refuses sometimes to believe it. LA, the city of angels, is where it all started going wrong, where he started going wrong, and his heart beats a hollow tattoo in his chest as he remembers Vancouver.

* * * *

"We can't do this again," he says, when really he means "I can't do this again"; can't keep fucking up and getting fucked by a co-star with red hair who he thinks he may want to spend the rest of his life with.

Falling in love is hard, falling out of love even harder but he has to try because he knows that Gillian, with her Scully-red hair and ice queen eyes, could never love a man like him.

Yet he still finds himself making his way to her trailer in the middle of the night, rapping out the knock that's only his (though he steals Mark's theme tune because he is deceiving, inveigling and obfuscating, even if just himself, and he thinks it apt) and closing the door softly behind him while her eyes watch his wary trek towards the bed.

He loses himself, a little, every time they fuck. He feels himself coming undone, as her hands brand his back and her teeth nip his neck and her mouth whispers words that make him harder than he thought he could ever be.

Her kisses keep him guessing, keep him on the edge of his seat and the tips of his toes and every other cliché you can think of. Her tongue slides into his mouth like a greeting, and with her lips on his he's suddenly home, and homesick, and longing for every girl he's ever loved and lost.

She is languid and livid under him, her pale skin a white scar against the red of the sheets. His tongue grazes her nipple as his fingers find their way inside her, and she runs her hands through his hair and moans his name. He wants to take his time, wants to savour the woman on the bed beneath him (because this is the last time, this is the last time). But she bucks her hips to meet his fingers and his cock grows harder and she smiles that seductress smile; and he is somehow inside her, her warm, slick cunt squeezing his cock as her hands meet his and her lips paralyse her name on his tongue.

They lie silently on the bed, afterwards. Every time he tells himself it's the last and every night he keeps coming back for more because he's in love, and too much of a fool to try and fall out of love with her.

* * * *

Her photograph sits on his mantelpiece now, surrounded by the shreds of his broken life. She was young and foolish, when the photo was taken; he was young and foolish. And he tells himself it's just a memento. A reminder of better times and better friends. But his frenzied hands beneath the sheets, her half gasped name in the moonlit air tell another story. A story that he tries to forget.

When he comes it is to a cold room and an empty bed, and the ghosts of Vancouver whispering in his ear.


End file.
